Pretend
by emerald1198
Summary: "I love you, Eli Goldsworthy," she says, her jaw clenched and her eyes desperate.  She says the words like she wishes she could change them.  And I answer with the same desire.  "I know."


**Pretend**

**One-shot**

**-Eli-**

Imogen mumbles something in her sleep and rolls over, slinging an arm over my torso. But I shrug away, careful not to wake her up. She mumbles again, her eyebrows furrowing together, and she clutches at the bed sheets where I have been moments ago.

Her words are still incoherent, but, for a moment, I'm sure I hear my name, and I sigh heavily, a lump forming in my throat as I realize how pretty she is. Imogen deserves a man who can appreciate that. Not me.

The icy air from the refrigerator mists over my bare chest, and I shiver a bit before reaching for one of the bottles. They're stacked on the bottom shelf, the supply running low on this particular night. I know Imogen will notice how many are gone tomorrow morning. She'll say she's getting the cream for our morning coffee, and I'll pretend I don't notice her risk a quick glimpse down.

I'll pretend I don't notice her wince.

She's knows I drink, and I know it hurts her. I think she pretends like it isn't as bad as it is; she pretends like she doesn't know the reason for it. Sometimes, I wonder if she's just pretending to sleep right now.

But I won't ask, because I know, even if she is, I can't stop myself from doing this right now. I close the door, and twist my hand around the jagged lid, grimacing at the sharp popping noise that sounds as the air bursts from inside the bottle.

Imogen mumbles again, but she doesn't wake up. Maybe, she doesn't want to wake up.

I press my lips to the glass and take a deep breath through my nose, smelling the scent of the alcohol, before tilting my head back and taking a quick swig. The alcohol splashes over my tongue and shoots down my throat, leaving it burning with the taste once it's gone.

I always used to hate alcohol as a teenager; I found it downright repulsing back then. I smirk bitterly, remembering a conversation with Fiona Coyne back in high school.

"How could you be addicted to the taste of that stuff?" I remember asking, and she had just looked down at her shoes and smiled a sad smile.

"It's not the taste you get addicted to; it's the feeling," she had murmured, saying nothing more.

I understand now, and I wonder idly if I'll ever get the chance to tell that to Fiona. She used to be a good friend of mine, but she's gone now. For a moment, I forget that Imogen is asleep a few feet away, and I let out a cynical laugh.

Here I am, at three o'clock in the morning, a twenty-four year old man, thinking about Fiona Coyne. I wonder if she's thought about me at all in the past few years, if she wonders what ever happened to me. If she heard my name on the street, would she turn her head? Did she keep the pictures from the play we directed together? Does she ever grab the bottle of black nail polish and remember the time she tried to paint mine?

Probably not, I decide.

But why would she? Why would anyone remember someone who was meant to be forgotten?

Imogen sighs in her sleep, and I turn to realize that her eyelids are fluttering open. She sits upright on the bed, her hands moving to rub her eyes before sliding through her long brown hair. She glances over at me, and I watch her eyes dart to the bottle and back up to my face without a word.

I think about offering her one, but I remain quiet, taking another gulp. She watches me drink until I finally turn my head, deciding I might as well ask. "Would you like one?"

"No," she murmurs, her voice completely monotone.

I shrug and tilt my head back for another drink before setting the bottle on the table. Her eyes move with it, still studying the now translucent glass. Her expression is dull and lifeless, and she finally mumbles something so quiet that's it nearly inaudible, but I hear it. "It's about her, isn't it?"

And I remain quiet, running a hand through my hair.

"Tell me what I'm supposed to do, Eli," she pleads, and, for the first time ever, I see tears in Imogen's eyes. "Because you can't drink her away."

I know that; I've always known that. But I can forget about her for the time being, and the consequences mean nothing. Anything I ever wanted to do, any aspirations I ever had, were for her. And now, she's gone.

"I've tried so hard," Imogen says, her voice sounding strangled, "I've tried so hard to give you what you want."

And I feel a twinge of guilt, strong enough to break through the alcohol, because I know how unfair this is to Imogen. To drown myself in the misery and hopelessness was one thing, but for so long, I had been pulling her with me.

From the day it started, I knew it was wrong. But Imogen had offered herself so freely, and, though I knew she didn't understand, I hadn't been strong enough to refuse her.

Now, years have gone by, and she's still wasting her life away on me. And now she's hurting, more than anyone like her should ever have to hurt. And it's my fault for letting her think that she has a chance at fixing me. Because the truth of the matter is that, no matter what she does, Imogen Moreno will never be _her._

And I'm a horrible person for ever letting her believe she could be.

"Tell me what to do," she insists, a tear pouring over now.

I don't bother to lie to her, to tell her that there's nothing wrong and that I love her. "There's nothing you can do," I murmur.

She gulps, letting out a ragged breath and sniveling. But she nods, and slides from under the sheets. One of my Dead Hand faded t-shirts is draped over her, and, though it's from high school, she's still swimming in it.

She moves over to sit lightly on my lap, and I look away, unable to stare into her dead eyes, unable to acknowledge the damage the years of being with me have caused her. And I realize I must be the most selfish person in the world.

She cups my face in her small hands and leans down to kiss me, her lips moving fiercely against mine as she tries to get some sort of response. But I'm done leading Imogen on.

"I love you, Eli Goldsworthy," she says, her jaw clenched and her eyes desperate. She says the words like she wishes she could change them.

And I answer her with the same desire. "I know."

**.**

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**.**

**I'm not really sure where this came from, but lately I've been having a lot of inspiration for Imogen. Don't get me wrong; I completely ship Eclare, but . . . I'm a writer – I can't help what comes to mind.**


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